Jamison
“What’s your favorite?” I asked the guy selling me a beer. He was a hipster. Tall, a big bushy beard, he looked more like a lumberjack than a cowboy. Not really my style, but I was feeling flirty. Tonight, fun with almost anyone would do. That said, I was at the rodeo so I was pretty sure I could do better. For me, better had always meant a cowboy. There was just something about a man in boots and a hat.
The beer slinger grumbled, “Arrogant Bastard.” I almost questioned his response but he dove his hand into a cooler and pulled out a craft beer with Arrogant Bastard scrawled across the label.
Snickering to myself, I winked. “I’ll take it.” He used an opener to pluck off the cap and passed the bottle to me, quickly moving on to the next patron in his line.
Beer in hand, I milled through the crowd on my potential cowboy hunt. It was late afternoon and there were still some events going on, but most people weren’t in the arena. Instead, they were checking out the livestock or watching the cowboys practice their skills. I was alone. My current bestie, Lorraine, was supposed to be with me but she backed out.
I’m the kind of girl who says she totally gets it when a friend calls and cancels because she’s tired or it’s raining or she’d rather hang with her man. But the truth was that when my friends bailed on me, I felt sad. I got lonely easily. More than one shrink had told me that my propensity for loneliness was a byproduct of shitty parenting, but whatever. Tonight, I had planned something special for Lorraine. I got VIP tickets to see Sarah Morgan at the rodeo. Lorraine was a huge fan of Sarah’s. It was a surprise, but she called and bailed and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her she was making a mistake. Karma was a bitch sometimes.
Just because Lorraine couldn’t get motivated to get her lazy butt off the couch, it didn’t mean that I was going to sit home in my pajamas and watch TV. I was Jamison Hildebrand. I’d been fending for myself and standing on my own since the first time my parents whisked off in their private jet and left me with the nanny. Going out alone was the right choice. At the rodeo, cowboys abound, and honestly, I didn’t need a wingwoman crimping my game.
I settled down on a set of bleachers near an entrance gate to the practice pen. There were a few burly cowboys off to my right, standing around chatting. One was holding a competition number, so I assumed they were actual rodeo competitors. I wasn’t necessarily looking for that. Competitive athletes tended to have unbearable egos. Judgmental, I know. We all are really, constantly forming opinions about everyone we see; I’m just honest with myself about the fact that judgment is a normal human behavior. I wasn’t looking for a long-term connection, so I disregarded their potential egos and checked out their ass-ets, if you know what I mean. There were three of them. Two brunettes—one in a red shirt and one in a plaid shirt—and a blond. The blond was taller than the other two and from what I could gather from their conversation, he was the best rider among them.
“I think Rogers is your biggest competition,” red shirt said. He had a mustache, not my thing. I couldn’t talk to a man with a mustache without channeling 80s era Tom Selleck as Magnum, P.I. Can you say Hawaiian shirt? No, thanks.
The blond shook his head. “Maybe last year. He’s past his prime.” There it was, the aforementioned ego issue.
From my right, someone hollered, “Buck!” The guy in the plaid shirt turned and my gaze followed his. Another cowboy, crisp in a white button-up and jeans, was jogging in my direction. He held his black hat in his hands, and I was thankful because I got a good look at his messy dirty-blond hair. He wasn’t tall or short. He was stacked, hard. And he was gorgeous, like ache-in-your-loins-full-lips-blond-hair-gray-eyes-chiseled-jaw-bite-your-bottom-lip-and-groan-out-loud gorgeous.
Plaid, now known as Buck, responded, “Cody? What are you doing…” Some kind of realization came over his face. “Of course, Sarah!” Cody, the hottie, nodded and then opened his arms in greeting and Buck returned the bro hug, big back slaps and all. “Hey, man,” Buck continued, now shaking Cody’s hand and looking back at blondie. “If Cody was competing, you’d have some real competition, Jack.”
Blondie (Jack) was a little taken aback. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said smugly. “What’s that saying? Those who can, do.”
Buck laughed. “Oh, he does. He’s my cousin. He's got a ranch. He’s trained on the job and used to be on the junior rodeo circuit in Montana. Cody was the cream of the crop.”
Mmm, yes. Cody was exactly what I was talking about, a real cowboy, not some bedazzled show pony—an honest-to-goodness hardworking, callused hands man, with a capital M.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Sure he was.”
I leaned in, soaking up all the testosterone floating in the air. Watching them was like eavesdropping on a cowboy telenovela. Also, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the star. I may or may not have had drool on my chin.
With mischief in his tone, Buck turned to Cody. “Wanna show him what you got?”
Humbly, Cody declined. “I would but who am I gonna ride?”
Me. He was gonna ride me.
Jack scoffed and Cody’s eyes grew hot. I loved a man with fire in his belly.
“You can ride Charger,” Buck said. “I’m already out; you wouldn’t be risking me nothing.”
Cody rolled his neck, then shrugged. “Alright, if you think this amateur needs to get schooled. Saddle her up.”
So feisty. I was on the edge of my seat. While Jack and Buck worked at tacking the two horses, Cody approached Charger. I couldn’t hear him, but I watched him whisper and hum to the hulking brown quarter horse. He ran his hand over the crest of the horse’s neck. There was a softness, a sweetness about the interaction. His respect for the animal was obvious. I knew he was just reacquainting himself, but it felt like he was sweet-talking to her, whispering words of love and respect in her big brown fuzzy ear.
Once Buck and Jack had tightened all the straps and checked all the buckles, the two men saddled up. They were sort of breakaway roping. I figured this was how they competed at home. Basically, they released a calf and the two men chased it down, side by side, as you do. Both men commanded their horses, and they were both fast, but Jack didn’t stand a chance. Cody was something else. The bulk of his thighs, the width of his chest, the sway of his arms, the entirety of his body seemed to meld with Charger like they were one entity moving through space, and when he whipped his rope, then swirled it above his head, it snared the calf as if he were working with magnets. When it was over, Cody hopped off Charger and tossed the reins to Buck. He didn’t look back at Jack who was huffing and puffing behind him.
Instead, he said, “She’s still a fine horse, Buck. You got my number?”
Buck nodded.
“Give Dee my love,” he said as he walked off, hand held up in goodbye, eyes facing in my direction.
Target locked, Cody was tonight’s cowboy, by hook or by crook.